At this crisis the fantastic valedictory of the retiring robber was brought to a sudden termination, by his hearing a sound – similar to those for which his ear had been but too well-trained to listen. It was the footfall of a horse, denoting the approach of a horseman – a traveller. It was neither of those who had just passed over the Heath: since it came from the direction opposite to that in which they had gone – up the road from Redhill.
There was but one horseman – as the hoof-stroke indicated. From the same index it could be told, that he was coming on at a slow pace – a walk in fact – as if ignorant of the road, or afraid of proceeding at a rapid rate along a path, which was far from being a smooth one.
On hearing the hoof-stroke, Gregory Garth instinctively, as instantly, desisted from his farcical apostrophe; and, without offering the slightest apology to his well-behaved auditors, turned his face away from them, and stood listening.
“A single horseman?” muttered he to himself, “Crawlin’ along at snail pace? A farmer maybe, who’s tuk a drap too much at the Saracen’s Head, an’ ’s failed asleep in his saddle? Now I think o’t, it be market day in that thear town o’ Uxbridge.”
The instincts of the footpad – which had for the moment yielded before the moral shock of the humiliating encounter with his old master – began to resume dominion over him.
“Wonder,” continued he, in a muttered tone, “Wonder if the chaw-bacon ha’ got any cash about him? Or have he been, and drunk it all at the inn? Pish! what do it matter whether he have or no? Ha’nt I gone an’ promised Master Henry ’twould be my last night? Dang it! I must keep my word.
“Stay!” he continued, after reflecting a moment, “I sayed that it shud be my last night? That’s ’zactly what you sayed, an’ nothin’ else, Greg’ry Garth! It wouldn’t be breakin’ no promise if I —
“The night be yooung yet! ’Taint much after eleven o’ the clock? I’ve just heard Chaffont bells strikin’ eleven. A night arn’t over till twelve. That’s the ‘law o’ the land.’
“What’s the use o’ talkin’? Things can’t be wuss wi’ me than they is arready. I’ve stole the sheep; an’ if I’m to swing for’t, I moat as well goo in for the hul flock. After all, Master Henry ha’nt promised to keep me; an’ I may starve for my honest intentions. I ha’nt enough silver left to kiver a spittle with; an’ as for these rags, they arn’t goin’ to fetch me a fortune. Dash it! I’ll stop chaw-bacon, an’ see whether he ha’nt been a sellin’ his beests.
“Keep yeer places, lads!” continued he, turning once more to his dummies, and addressing them as if he really believed them to be “lads.”
“Keep yeer places; and behave jest the same, as if nuthin’ ’d been sayed about our separatin’!”
Concluding his speech with this cautionary peroration, the footpad glided back under the shadow of the hovel; and silently placed himself in a position to pounce upon the unwary wayfarer, whose ill-luck was conducting him to the crossing of Jarret’s Heath at that late hour of the night.
Volume One – Chapter Twelve
The robber had not long to wait for his victim. The necessary preparations for receiving the latter occupied some time – enough for the slow-paced traveller to get forward upon the ground; which he succeeded in doing, just as Gregory Garth had secured himself an ambush, within the shadow of the hovel. There stood he, in the attitude of a hound in leash, straining upon the spring.
When the horseman, emerging from under the arcade of the trees, rode out into the open ground, and the moonlight fell upon him and his horse, the footpad was slightly taken by surprise. Instead of a farmer, fuddled with cheap tipple obtained at the “Saracen’s Head,” Garth saw before him an elegant cavalier, mounted upon a smoking but handsome steed, and dressed in a full suit of shining satin!
Though surprised, Gregory was neither dismayed, nor disconcerted. On the contrary, he was all the better satisfied at seeing – in the place of a drunken clod-hopper, perchance with an empty wallet – a gentleman whose appearance gave every promise of a plethoric purse; and one also, whose aspect declared to the practised eye of the footpad, that compelling him to part with it, would be an achievement neither difficult nor dangerous.
Without losing an instant, after making this observation, the robber rushed out from under the shadow of the hut; and, just as he had hailed the two horsemen half-an-hour before, did he salute the satin-clad cavalier.
Very different however was the response which he now received in return to the stereotyped demand, “Stand and deliver!” Such travellers as the black horseman were rare upon the road; and he of the smoking steed, and satin vestments, instead of drawing a pistol from his holsters, or a sword from its sheath, threw up both hands in token of surrender; and, in a trembling voice, piteously appealed for mercy.
“Hang it, Master!” cried Garth, still keeping his pike pointed at the breast of the frightened traveller. “Doant be so skeeart! They woant hurt ye, man. Nee’r a one o’ ’em’s goin’ to lay a finger on ye – that be, if ye doant make a fool o’ yerself by showin’ resistance. Keep yeer ground, boys! The gentleman han’t no intention to gie trouble.”
“No – I assure you, no!” eagerly ejaculated the traveller. “I mean no harm to anybody. Believe me, friends! I don’t, indeed. You’re welcome to what money I’ve got. It isn’t much: I’m only a poor messenger of the king.”
“A messenger of the king!” echoed the captain of the robbers, showing a new interest in the announcement.
“And, if I may ask the question,” proceeded he, drawing nearer to the traveller, and rudely clutching hold of his bridle-rein, “Whither be ye bound, good Master?”
“O sir,” replied the trembling courtier, “I am glad I’ve met with some one who, perhaps, can tell me the way. I am the bearer of a message from his gracious Majesty to Captain Scarthe, of the King’s Cuirassiers; who is, or should be, by this time, quartered with Sir Marmaduke Wade, of Bulstrode Park – somewhere in this part of the county of Buckingham.”
“Ho, ho!” muttered Gregory Garth, speaking to himself, “message from his Majesty to Captain Scarthe! – Sir Marmaduke Wade! Bulstrode Park! What the ole Nick be all this about?”
“You know Sir Marmaduke Wade, do you not, good friend?”
“Well, Master Silk-and-Satin,” scornfully drawled the footpad, “without havin’ the pleasure o’ knowin’ you, or the honour o’ bein’ your good friend eyther, I think as how I mout say, that I does know somethin’ o’ that very gentleman, Sir Marmaduke Wade; though it be news to me that theer be such a individable as Captain Scarthe, either in the county o’ Bucks, or in the kingdom o’ England – to say nothin’ o’ a troop o’ King’s Kewrasseers being quartered at Bulstrode Park. All o’ that there be Greek to Greg’ry Garth.”
“Good friend! I assure you it’s nothing but the truth. Captain Scarthe and his troop have certainly arrived at Bulstrode Park by this time; and if you will only conduct me thither – ”
“Bah! that arn’t my bizness. Conduct yerself. Bulstrode Park aint a step from here. As to Captain Scarthe, or the King’s Kewrasseers, I shud n’t know eyther one nor t’other from a side o’ sole leather. If ye’ve got e’er a message, ye can hand it over to me, an’ along wi’ it whatever loose cash ye be carryin’ on your fine-clad carcass. Fork out!”
“Oh! sir; to my money you’re welcome – my watch also and the chain. But as you love our good king, let me ride on upon the errand, on which he has despatched me!”
“Maybe I don’t love ‘our good King,’ so much as ye think for, ye spangled flunkey! Come! out wi’